


In the Dark of the Night: Traitors, Treason, and Plot

by HidingFromTheSpotlight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Also there might be Johnlock, Alternate Character Interpretation for Sally and Anderson, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, And Gladstone is a Hel-Hound, And Jim is a little less evil but not really, Demons, Gen, Giant Scorpions in the first chapter, Gods, Healer John, I haven't decided, Injured John, King Lestrade - Freeform, Monsters, Oh and Irene Adler is a Bohemian Goddess, Prophetic Visions, Sally and Anderson and John are bros, Spirits, Work In Progress, but that doesn't come into play yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HidingFromTheSpotlight/pseuds/HidingFromTheSpotlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a simple peasant Healer in a dusty, desert village. He shouldn't be plagued by visions when he sleeps, or finding strange marks on his body, or accused of being a Demon's disciple. But he is. He leaves Harrod's Dune behind him when the village elder seeks to have him executed, and befriends a Hel-Hound, a self-proclaimed Man of Science, and a woman prophesied to slay the Demon Lord Weylin. He finds favour with Irene, Bohemian Goddess of Love and Lust, and saves Princess Molly on his first day in London. But when he meets a young Druid by the name of Sherlock Holmes, things get complicated. Someone is planning to murder King Lestrade and throw the Kingdom of Doyle into disarray. All in all, John wishes he'd gone back to Bohemia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mark of the Liar

**Author's Note:**

> I have many WIPS. Many, many, many WIPS. In order to procrastinate writing a story, I start a new one. But this is the only one that actually has been plotted out (as in I know the start, the middle, and the end). I really need to start restraining my muse. Anyway, I should be editing 'You Fascinate Me' but I also like feedback and I want to know if I should keep going with this too (I'll have to limit myself though).  
> So yeah. And I've sort of taken some liberties with certain characters, but we'll get to that later. Mostly this chapter is about John getting away from Harrod's Dune, but it has a bit of action in it. I think I'm horrible at writing action, though I think I'm horrible at writing anything so who knows?  
> Thank you for reading, and please leave a comment, if you can, telling me what you think.

The village of Harrod’s Dune is small, living in the shadow of the Mountains of Baskerville, and surrounded by a wall that is mostly decoration. There is little there of note, other than being one of the few places you can find two-humped camels. It is a quiet place and the people like it that way. They find anyone of strange character best left alone, unless they have a useful skill. But said character would still find themselves on the fringes of village life, only included out of pity or because they’re necessary to keep the village going. The children would whisper to one another and giggle. The elderly would cast disapproving looks and mutter under their breath. And yet, one person who is subject to this treatment daily has managed to flourish. John Watson is the village healer. He makes use of the numerous roots and herbs and flowers and plants that grow in abundance at the base of the mountain, and turns them into miracle powders and pastes. John lived a simple, quiet life in his hut on the outskirts, spending most of his time roaming the wilderness or practicing his skills with his crossbow. He had only lived in the village for a few years, having moved here from Bohemia with his parents. They were long since dead, but John remained. It was peaceful, and although he missed the ocean breeze he wouldn’t trade the oddity that was his new home for anything in the world. But at night, as he tossed fitfully this way and that trying to fight off the nightmares, he wished he wasn’t so alone.

“Oi! Watson!” a voice bellowed through the small village, breaking the early morning silence.

John turned, jolted out of his thoughts. He took in the state of the man standing in his doorway, alarmed. “Mr Kemp? What can I-”

“Shut up! It’s my daughter. She’s sweating and her face is all red and she can’t eat anything and her tongue is blue and- and you have to fix her! You know how to do it don’t ya?” Kemp babbled, nearly overturning a milk crate in his haste.

John silenced him with a gentle hand, picking up his bag. “Take me to her. Go, go!”

Mr Kemp nodded, racing out of John’s hut with the shorter man hot on his heels. “We don’t know what’s come over her! She was perfectly fine last night; she and her sisters were playing by the mountainside all afternoon. And then this morning she vomited everywhere and told her mother her stomach hurt.” Bursting into his modest home, he ushered John over to a bedside which was surrounded by Kemp’s several dozen children and wife. The small child tucked under a mountain of blankets was pale, her raven hair sticking to her face.

“Mr Kemp, do you think you could…?” John let the question hang uncertainly, his eyes darting to the children milling about.

“Kids, go wait outside, please,” Mrs Kemp instructed softly. The children complied, albeit reluctantly, and soon it felt as though the room had doubled in size. John knelt down by the girl’s side, tentatively resting his hand on her forehead. Her eyes flickered open, eying him blearily.

“Can you fix her?” Mr Kemp demanded.

 John ignored the question, focusing on the small girl. “Hi there. I’m John. What’s your name?” he asked quietly.

“What are you-” Mr Kemp began, only to be hurriedly shushed by Mrs Kemp.

“Will,” the little girl coughed out.

“Wilhelmina,” her father clarified.

“That’s a pretty name. May I call you Will?” John queried, removing a thin strip of glass from his bag and gently tapping it. The girl nodded. “Nice to meet you, Will, though I wish it were under better circumstances. Tell me, where does it hurt most?”

“Tummy.”

“Your tummy? Anywhere else?” A head shake, no. “That’s good. Here, can you rest this under your tongue for a moment. There’s a good girl.” John placed two fingers at the girl’s wrist, checking her pulse. He nodded thoughtfully, pulling out another piece of glass, this one flat and round. He held it over her eye, peering down at her. Will giggled softly at the sight.

“What is that?” Mr Kemp said, narrowing his eyes.

“It’s a magnifier,” John informed him. “I’m checking your daughter’s eyes.”

“What for?”

“Signs, symptoms, clues,” John replied. He lifted Will’s arm, frowning at her fingertips. They were a faint shade of blue at the tips. “What’s this discolouration?” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

“The girl’s were picking berries by the mountainside,” Mrs Kemp explained.

“Hmm,” John hummed. He leant forwards slightly, sniffing. His nose curled as he found the scent of overripe berries, which was curiously strong. Chewing on his lip, he removed the strip of glass from Will’s mouth. He ran his eyes over it before cleaning it off with a cloth and tucking it back into the special pocket of his bag. He sat back on his heels, thinking. “Hmm,” he said again, getting up.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Mr Kemp leapt up, looking fearful.

“Wait here a moment,” John said, disappearing outside. When he returned a moment later with Will’s older sister, Beth, in tow; he looked satisfied. “I know exactly what’s wrong.”

“What is it?” Mrs Kemp said sharply. Mr Kemp only made a whining noise that was near indecipherable.

“She’s sick from eating too many berries,” John told them simply.

Mrs Kemp let out a soft laugh, falling back against her husband. “Thank the spirits!”

“Berries? Berries did this?” Mr Kemp said, gesturing towards Will.

John nodded. “Bottle-berries to be specific. They make lovely snacks, even some nice jam if you have a good recipe. But eating too many can make you horribly ill.”

“While we were picking berries, Will kept sneaking a handful every few minutes. Well, we all were to be honest,” Beth said, kicking the ground guiltily. “But Will ate the most,” she added.

“Did not,” Will grumbled.

“So she’ll be okay?” Mr Kemp said dubiously.

John pulled a small bottle from his bag, handing it to Mrs Kemp. “Give her one drop every two hours to settle her stomach and she’ll be as right as rain by tomorrow. And make sure she gets plenty of water.”

Will eyed the bottle suspiciously. “Looks nasty,” she surmised.

“It is, but it’ll help you get better a lot faster,” John said cheerfully. He slung his bag over his shoulder, nodding to Will. Turning to Mr and Mrs Kemp, he smiled. “If that’s all, I’ll take my leave.”

“Oh, wait! What about your payment?” Mrs Kemp asked.

John shook his head, waving away Mr Kemp’s hand as it strayed towards his coin purse. “I don’t charge for these sorts of things, Mrs Kemp. Only for my more superficial services, like the hair cream Mr Fisher uses.” John suddenly coughed, looking guilty. “I didn’t tell you that.”

Mrs Kemp beamed. “Oh, thank you, Mr Watson. If you ever need anything, don’t be afraid to ask!”

Mr Kemp nodded, escorting John to the door. “Look, Watson, I really appreciate what you did. And I think I should insist-”

“I won’t have it, Mr Kemp,” John said seriously. “I don’t do this for wealth. Have a good day.” John inclined his head, hurrying off before the man could get another word in edgewise. John smiled to himself, breathing in the fresh air. In front of him loomed the Mountain of Baskerville, almost completely blotting out the skyline. Behind him, the fertile ground quickly gave way to sand and sparse bushes. Baskerville was a dark splotch on the landscape, carrying an ominous atmosphere and constantly shifting weather. But the village of Harrod’s Dune was flourishing, even in its shadow. The tales of Hel-Hounds had done little to scare away Harrod, and his descendants dismissed them as nonsense, though no one could explain the distant howls that echoed every new moon. John paused in his stride, feeling a tug on the hem of his shirt. He turned, looking down into fierce brown eyes.

“Teach me,” the little boy demanded.

John raised an eyebrow, looking back along the road to see more dark-haired children eying him nervously. “I take it you’re Will’s brother.”

“I’m Eoin,” the boy stated. “Teach me to do the things you do. Please.”

“How old are you, Eoin?” John queried, kneeling down.

“Nine.”

“Do you know anything about herbs?”

“…No.”

John chewed on his cheek, running a hand through his hair. He glanced at Eoin, and then the gaggle of siblings behind him, who had bravely moved forward a few steps. “Can you read?”

“Not- Not big words. But I can learn!” Eoin told him earnestly.

“I can read!” two of his older siblings chorused, drawing closer.

“Follow me,” John said, moving towards his hut. “Wait here,” he told them, walking inside. He returned with an aging book in his hands. “Here, this should help.”

“What is it?” Eoin questioned, hefting the book into his arms and nearly toppling over. Beth took the book from him, holding it delicately.

“It’s a book of plants that can be used for medicine. It even has pictures,” John said. “Though this doesn’t mean you should go picking things willy-nilly. Some plants look a lot alike, and you don’t want to confuse a poisonous leaf with a cure for boils.”

Eoin worried his lip between his teeth. “Could you still teach me though?”

“If you want, and with your parents’ permission of course, I could take you out looking for herbs tomorrow,” John offered.

Eoin brightened, nodding enthusiastically. “Yes! Er, if you don’t mind that is.”

“What about us?” his brother piped up.

“We want to go too!” his sister whined.

“Why does Eoin get to go?” another brother chimed in.

John chuckled. “Oh alright. But only if you have your mum and dad’s permission,” he smiled. The children cheered, racing home. Eoin shook John’s hand, obviously trying to look more mature than his siblings, and followed Beth at a more dignified pace. John waved as they disappeared up the dusty street. Inside, he sank onto a stool, letting out a sigh. He looked mournfully towards the letter he was writing to Harriet, but even before he had rushed off to tend to Will he had barely kept his hand steady. “Just a few minutes,” he muttered to himself, moving over to his swag *****  and lying down. He was asleep instantly.

 

* * *

 

_Falling. Falling. Darkness. John’s hand grabbed desperately at the collar around his neck. The chains clinked ominously and his stomach did somersaults when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He pressed himself against the wall, staring at the front of his cell. The wounds on his back stung in memory of the whipping he had received. He tried not to shudder as the man flashed before his eyes, his crooked grin widening as he delivered another cutting blow. His heart was racing; he could feel it banging against his ribcage. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. He couldn’t show fear. The footsteps stopped right outside his cell. “John?” a voice breathed._

_John’s eyes opened, and he looked up to see a guard. No… they were wearing a guard’s uniform, but they had removed the faceplate. A dark-haired man, someone he knew if the fluttering in his chest was anything to go by, carefully unlocked his cell, moving over to grapple with the collar around John’s neck. “I thought…” John trailed off, looking the man in the eyes._

_“That we would leave you?” the man finished. “Don’t be an idiot, John. It doesn’t suit you.” Despite his nonchalant tone, he offered John a small, awkward smile, as if he wasn’t used to the expression._

_John felt himself grin in response. “Thanks. I think.”_

_“C’mon, the others are keeping lookout. I’ve got a spare uniform for you too,” he said, offering John the dark material. “We don’t have much time.”_

_“I’d say you don’t have any at all,” someone growled. Stepping out of the shadows, a muscled, scarred man smirked at them. John’s memory supplied the name: Gallow. He unsheathed his sword, a sharp-looking sabre, and pointed it at the dark-haired man. “Guess we’ll have another for the market tomorrow. I’ll do my best not to leave a mark; those ones don’t sell too well.” Gallow raised his sword arm high, preparing to swing at John’s saviour. The man took a step back, having no weapon to protect himself, and pulled John behind him in a last-ditch attempt to protect him. John’s throat constricted, fear and adrenaline mixing like a cocktail of bad ideas. One arm wrapping around the taller man’s waist, John pulled him to the side and down. His heart thundered as Gallow’s swing narrowly missed._

_“Move!” the dark-haired man shouted, dragging John to his feet and racing down the narrow walkway._

_“Run, run, little ones. Gallow’s gonna get ya no matter where you go!” Gallow called, his voice ringing out through the open air. Sherlock put his arm around John’s shoulder, urging him on. They leapt through a door leading to a long hallway with a stairwell to the left. The pair descended the stairs two at a time, hearing Gallow’s heavy steps following them like a storm cloud. Reaching a landing, Sherlock pushed John through the heavy door and straight into the arms of another guard. The guard started, their partner going for the weapon at their belt. John tensed, his hand closing around the other man’s wrist. This was it. They were done for._

John sat up with a name on his lips that instantly fell away. He blinked at his surroundings, the dream receding until it was only a faint, confused memory, though the man was still vivid in his mind. He rubbed his eyes and got up. As he made himself some tea, he mused over the fact he had had another dream about that strange man. For the past few months, when he wasn’t having nightmares, he saw visions of a young man with dark, curly hair and sharp blue eyes. His thoughts immediately went to the tattoos that encircled the man’s throat and wrists. After a small amount of questioning, he had found out the tattoos were common amongst the Druids. He didn’t know what to make of it. Hopefully, his mind was just incredibly inventive, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that what he had seen was important. He set his tea down on his table and turned back to the letter he had been writing. He read it once again, frowning. It made his life sound uneventful and boring. Sighing, he scribbled a few more lines and signed off. After a gulp of tea to wet his lips, he sealed it into its envelope and stood. The weather was still fair, so he could drop the letter off with the Postmaster and head to the mountain to pick the Dragon Leaves and Beast Thorns he needed for his latest mixture. He also needed to buy some honey for Miss Trout’s skin potion. Straightening up, he downed the last of his tea and headed for the door, throwing his satchel over his shoulder.

“Hello, John. Got a new order of Weeping Weeds if you’re interested,” Haggard grinned, waving John over to his stall. “And some Dried Begas Root too.”

“No thanks, Haggard. Do you have any honey? I’m running low,” John inquired, not even bothering to look at the oddities on display.

“Ah, no, I don’t. I only have Wasp Jelly. I’ll save a bottle of the Bohemian stuff if you want; I’m expecting a shipment in a couple of days,” Haggard said. He adjusted his eye patch, little more than a ragged cloth, and picked up a jar of bright yellow paste. “You should sample this for me. It’s supposed to help calm you down or something like that, but I’m not too sure about it. The guy called it ‘Sunflower Essence’ but I don’t know. How about it?”

“Yeah, sure.” John pocketed the jar, waving goodbye to Haggard. He smiled to Postmaster Walt as he passed, handing him the letter for Harriet.

Walt tipped his hat, slipping the letter into his bag. “Heard you had a bit of a morning,” he said conversationally, handing John a receipt.

“Yeah, I suppose. It could have been worse,” John replied.

Walt nodded. “Well, I’ll see you around, Mr Watson. Good day.”

“Bye,” John said quietly. Moving off, he watched as the flow of the village continued on. Children too young to attend school were darting about playing or squirming in the arms of their parents. A few stalls in the village centre had been set up, though the supply of goods was slowly dwindling as the day wore on. The village elders had gathered around the well to chat, casting the odd disapproving look at any youngsters who hung about too long. A shriek filled the air, shattering the calm atmosphere. Everyone turned towards the source of the cry. A woman screeched as a claw came into view, slowly followed by another equally sharp claw, a long, armoured body, and the thin, venom-filled tail.

“Scorpions! Scorpions are attacking!” the village lookout yelled, though it seemed a little late.

“Scorpions have never attacked during the day before,” Jarrod Rowan, the oldest man in the village, muttered to the others as they backed away.

The scorpions hissed wildly as they approached, spraying venom at anything in reach. They crawled forwards, their claws tearing apart the wooden huts as though they were nothing. Children were dragged out of harm’s way and towards the relative safety of the mountains. The few men and women capable with a bow took on positions to cover the others’ escape. John fetched his crossbow and made his way round the south side. He pulled himself up onto a roof for a better vantage point, firing an arrow at a scorpion that was trying to sneak its way towards the Baskervilles. To the East and the South, the mountains loomed around them. But to the West, where hard-packed clay became sand, a swarm of Hurg’s Scorpions were marching towards the village. With the sun reflecting of their sandy-coloured shells and their claws snapping, one would be hard-pressed to deny their origins as the children of a demon. His attention was drawn by a pitiful cry and when he found the source his stomach turned to ice. Eoin, Beth, and one of their much younger siblings were trapped against the city wall and surrounded on all sides by the venomous beasts. Eoin looked up and their eyes connected, the young boy sending a silent plea. John leapt down from the rooftop, rolling when he hit the ground. He wound his way towards the children, firing off as many arrows as he could. The youngest Kemp sniffled as his sister held him to her chest. A scorpion loomed over them, climbing over a hut that could barely hold its weight. John took aim, hitting it in the chest. He planted himself in front of the children, his eyes scanning the area earnestly. Looking back he offered what was hopefully an optimistic smile. “It’ll be okay. I’ll keep you safe,” he said.

“What are we gonna do?” Eoin asked.

“You, Eoin, are going to help me keep your brother and sister safe. I need a second pair of eyes. Can you do that for me?” John replied.

Eoin nodded, but he squeezed his sister’s hand all the same. “I can do it.”

“Good man. Let’s make our way to the East gate, shall we?” John led them onwards, creeping round the huts and keeping a watchful eye out for any scorpions that slipped past the villagers guarding the West gate. The East gate was in sight when-

“Look out!” Beth screeched as a scorpion reared up on its hind legs. It hissed at them, but fortunately seemed to have wasted all of its venom on the villagers’ homes. John reached for another arrow, only for his hand to grab at thin air. He allowed himself a second of horror before snatching up a plank of wood from amongst the debris.

“Eoin, I want you and your siblings to make a run for it,” he ordered, paling as the plank was snapped in two. He snatched up two more, one for each hand, and slapped the scorpion’s claws away. Looking over his shoulder, he watched as the children disappeared through the gate. He heard screaming, and something wet ran down his front. He looked down and numbly realised the screaming was coming from him. The screams burst over his lips, but was oddly disconnected from his serene state of mind. His body thrashed, his hands fumbling with the stinger lodged in his shoulder. The scorpion leered at him, hissing as it flicked its tail and nearly pulled John off his feet. Its claw swiped at his leg. He fell back, his knees buckling. His hand closed around something and he opened his eyes to find he was holding onto a short scythe. Before he could comprehend what he was doing, he had slashed at the stinger. The scorpion screeched in outrage and pain, scuttling back. John stumbled up, his vision blurring and his ears buzzing, and clumsily ran for the gate. His body began to convulse and he fell. He couldn’t see or hear anything. His entire body was going numb, and his mind was still in a revolting state of calm. He closed his eyes, giving in to the whispers that urged him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Soft murmurings slid their way into his ears and curled around his brain. Sunlight pierced his eyelids, forcing him back to conscious. His thatched roof swam into view and he let out a groan as his body came to life, angrily informing of just how badly he had been injured. His shoulder was definitely the loudest, though he was more surprised to find he still had one. Gingerly, he pushed himself into a sitting position. The whispers outside ceased, and an eye peered at him through the gap in his door. There was more whispering, followed by an uncertain voice asking, “Are you awake?”

“N _o_ th _i_ s _i_ s _a_ n _i_ ll _u_ s _io_ n,” John replied sarcastically, levering himself up. “What’s happened? Is everyone okay?”

“Stay right where you are!” they yelped.

“Oh calm down. I’m just getting something to take the edge off the pain. I’ll get back in bed in a minute,” John said, walking over to his workbench.

“Get Jarrod! Go get Jarrod!” someone else hissed.

“Jarrod? Jarrod Rowan? What are you getting him for?” John frowned. “Wouldn’t you be better off getting a medical expert of some kind?” Receiving no reply, John turned back to his work and focused on mixing herbs one-handed.

“John Watson, if that _is_ your name, I must ask you to stand down,” Jarrod ordered, framed by the doorway and looking larger than he actually was.

“What?”

“You shall stand down or be struck down. And it would a pity for you to die _before_ we go to trial,” Jarrod drawled. He didn’t seem particularly biased towards either option, though.

“What? What trial?”

“You, John Watson, stand accused of serving the Demon of Lies. Proof of these allegations can be found no further than the mark on your chest!”

“I- What? It’s just an interestingly shaped bruise!” John said, his good arm curling protectively over his chest. The mark had appeared nearly a week ago after he’d taken a short tumble down the mountainside, and though John found its shape strange, he thought it oddly charming.

“It is the Mark of Higowrath!” Jarrod declared. “And it marks you, Watson, as one of his brood. Sent out into the world to deceive good, honest people and lead them down the path of evil! I will not stand for it. No such wickedness shall breed in my town so long as I live.”

“You’re mad! I’m not some damned demon’s lackey! I am a healer. I spend all of my time looking for roots and shoots and leaves. Don’t you think if a demon wanted me to pervert good people he’d put me up in some high-up noble family or something?” John exclaimed.

“Far be it from me to divine the workings of a demon’s mind,” Jarrod sniffed. “Your trial will be at sunset. Your execution will follow shortly after; don’t want the children to be up too late.” Jarrod threw John a grin that was all teeth before sweeping out of the hut like an overgrown bat.

John tried to follow him but was met with swords and grim looks by the guards at his door. Going back to his workbench, he peeled back his bandages to inspect the wound. It had started to heal, and it didn’t seem infected, but just to be sure he applied some anti-bacterial paste. Grimacing, he redressed the wound and downed a jar of Ugly Berries and White Water Leaves to help ease the pain. He re-examined his body, assessing any damage that he might have overlooked. Despite a handful of scratches and bruises, he seemed okay. His leg was stiff, giving him a small limp, but he could find no external damage that might have caused it. He moved to his mirror, using it to get a better look at the mark on his chest. “Looks like a torch,” he murmured to himself.

“Oi! Enough of all that noise! Don’t think we won’t come in there,” one of the guards barked, his voice wavering halfway through.

John threw a dark look at the doorway. “McGuire? I fixed your mother’s cataracts and this is how you repay me?”

“It’s nothing personal!” McGuire gritted out.

“Don’t talk to him! He’s one of _them_ ,” the other guard, Higgins, hissed.

“One of what?” John asked. “One of Higowrath’s brood? Ridiculous.”

“Hey! We don’t make fun of your beliefs, _Bohemian_.”

“And for that I’m so very grateful,” John said, rolling his eyes. He pulled out his bag, rearranging its contents. He silently thanked Quentin, his patron god, that it hadn’t been forgotten or lost. Slipping in dried food, a water canteen, and a change of clothes, John shouldered the pack and headed to the wall of his hut that faced the East. He pressed at the wooden boards, looking for the weak spot. When he found it he carefully pulled it away, widening the new exit until it was large enough for him to slide through. He had made it only a few steps when he heard a shout but he didn’t look back. Instead he sped up, breaking into an outright sprint. The guards thundered along behind him, cursing and yelling as they went. Torches were lit in the village as people were roused by the din. Men, women, and children came streaming out the gates, watching John’s escape. John darted left and right, weaving in ways that the larger guards were unable to follow. He followed the Old Road that ran through the mountains until his pursuers were at a safer distance, and then quickly dived off the path. Racing through bushes, he ducked behind a small curtain of ivy that hung down over a small cave, more of a dip in the rock face than anything, catching his breath for the moment. Higgins and McGuire swore loudly, running back and forth as they searched. John pressed a hand to the sturdy rock, letting its cool, smooth surface support him. His shoulder was on fire and his leg was protesting the strain. He wasn’t sure if he could keep going.

“Go get the others!” Higgins roared. McGuire took off, running back to the village as if Gorgomath ******  was on his tail. Higgins continued to stalk his way through the bushes, letting out a cry of “Aha!” that quickly turned to a string of curses. “You can’t stay hidden forever, Watson! There’s no way out of this little cove. You’ve trapped yourself.”

John refrained from yelling back, even though he knew it was true. The alcove, although spacious by normal measurements and filled with large, leafy bushes, was not infinite and the rock walls were too steep to climb. He tucked himself further back into his little cave and prayed to Quentin, any of the Twelve, to help him. He begged them to keep him safe, just this once. He froze when he heard more footsteps arrive on the scene and Higgins ordering them to spread out. His heart was clanging in his chest so loudly he was certain they would hear it. Every noise he made seemed deafening, and he could barely breathe for fear it would give him away. The ivy was pulled back and a familiar pair of green-y yellow eyes peered at him. Mr Kemp stared at John, his expression indecipherable. He expected to be dragged out of his hiding and immediately executed. He expected a cry of victory and for Kemp to boast to the others that he had been the one to find the fugitive. He had expected the worst of the worst. What he didn’t expect was for Mr Kemp to lean forwards, looking John directly in the eyes, and whisper, “This is for Will and Eoin.”

John would have stammered out a question if he’d had the chance, but someone called out, “You found anything, Kemp?” and the man withdrew from sight.

“No. I bet the rat scarpered already. Found some way to sneak past ‘Jiggling Higgins’ and haul his ass as far up the path as he could get,” Kemp said loudly.

“What did you just say about me?” Higgins thundered. John could just imagine the reddening blotches appearing on the man’s face like craters.

“You heard me,” Kemp said. “Maybe if you spent more time with your nose to the grindstone and your ear to the ground instead of stuffing your fat face we wouldn’t have lost the most dangerous prisoner in the entire kingdom!”

John heard Higgin’s outraged shout and the ensuing scuffle as the men around him struggled to keep him back. “You bastard!” Higgins yelled.

“I think you hurt his feelings,” one of the younger boys whispered.

“I will have you know that I have a medical condition, which was diagnosed by a specialist in London, and a very low metabolism!” Higgins said with what could have been a sniffle.

There was a pause. And then Mr Kemp, very quietly and with no small amount of regret, said, “I know, Hig. I’m sorry. This whole prisoner escape thing just has me frustrated.”

“Let’s try searching further up the path,” McGuire suggested.

The men murmured an agreement, following McGuire out of the area. John waited, counting to a thousand before he emerged from his hiding place. He kept low to the ground, his left arm tucked against his chest. He took another step. A growl rippled through the air behind him, a harsh, hot breath hitting the back of his neck. Slowly, painfully slow, and as carefully as he could manage, John turned. The Hel-Hound sniffed at John, its nose hovering just over his left shoulder. It was the size of a horse, with coal-black fur that stuck out at odd angles, and glowing amber eyes. If it hadn’t been looming over him like he was a ready-made meal John would have thought it cute. In fact it reminded him of the small bulldogs they had back in Bohemia, except giant-sized. Raising his arms so that his hands were splayed open in front of his chest, John slowly took a step back. “Hey there, big fella. You’re an impressive thing, aren’t you?”

The Hel-Hound barked, closing the distance between them once more. It turned its attention to John’s bag, sniffing intently. Its massive tongue darted out, licking at the satchel. Gently, John pulled the bag open. “You hungry? Let me see what I’ve got.” Reaching in, he pulled out the first thing his hand met: a jar of yellow paste. In a flash, the Hound’s tongue darted out and the jar was out of his grasp. John winced as he heard the glass shatter, expecting the beast to go into a frenzied outrage. Instead it simply blinked at him, sitting back on its haunches as if it didn’t know what had just happened. John slowly, with a trembling hand, patted the dog’s nose.

“You’re a good boy,” he said. “I wonder if you have a name.” The hound tilted its head, a small rumble building in its throat. “Well, I can’t just call you Hound. So… I’ll call you Gladstone.”

Gladstone yipped, his tail wagging and creating a miniature earthquake when it hit the ground. He stopped without warning, his ears perking up. John listened, hearing the returning footsteps of the men. The hound nudged him, nearly knocking him flat, and turned towards the cliff face. He walked towards it. John followed close behind, watching as they got closer, and closer, and- John blinked, looking around in surprise. They were in a tunnel, a large one, though John had to wriggle to the front to avoid being crushed by Gladstone. John squinted at the darkness with uncertainty.

“Uh, you wouldn’t have a torch on you?” he asked Gladstone. He took the resulting confused head tilt as a ‘no’. “Right then, on we go.”

The tunnel was long and winding. It twisted unexpectedly in places, causing John to stub his toe or bang his head on a stalactite. He stumbled along, sensing Gladstone shuffling behind him. The Gods only know how the oversized canine managed it. But he couldn’t think about it too deeply, navigating the darkness was hard enough without him being unfocused. His leg gave throbs of pain the further he stayed on it, making him wince and lean on the tunnel wall for support. It hadn’t bothered him while he was running for his life, but now it was positively agonising. He struggled on with his hellish companion nudging him if he paused for too long. Finally, after what felt like hours, he reached an opening. John paused, letting the cold wind bite at his exposed skin. He took a few more steps out onto the path, looking at how it seemed to naturally wind its way down the mountainside. The view was breathtaking. The desert stretched out endlessly in all directions, though he wasn’t high enough to see too far into the distance. Gladstone let out a small whine, shuffling onto the ledge. “I guess you don’t like heights, huh mate?” John said softly, rubbing the top of Gladstone’s head. Gladstone whimpered, throwing a frightened glance towards the edge. “C’mon, Gladdie, it’ll be okay. Just follow me.”

Slowly, they wound their way down. The path was crumbling in places, worn away by harsh winds. It threatened to collapse when too much weight was put on it, and it was with great effort that John coaxed the Hel-Hound along. John stepped around a rock that jutted out, gesturing for Gladstone to follow. “C’mon, boy. It’s okay. You’ll be just f-”

John’s mouth clicked shut as he realised he was no longer standing on solid ground. The mountainside rushed up to greet him. The world became a dizzying blur as he rolled head over toes; Gladstone’s panicked barks filled his ears as he went. He tried to protect his shoulder, feeling the spark of pain every time he collided with a wayward rock or a shrub. At the bottom, he let out a small groan, his eyes rolling. He would definitely have some bruises. And he was certain that his not quite healed shoulder was bleeding again. But he couldn’t move, not now. He was too sore. “H- He- Oh.” His voice cracked. He couldn’t call out. Blackness was swimming at the edge of his vision, threatening to overtake him. Somewhere above him, Gladstone was releasing his heartbreak upon the world in a collection of pained howling. And then warm hands cupped his chin, and a pair of eyes peered down at him in concern.

“Quite a tumble,” a voice murmured. “I suggest you rest. I’ll take care of you.” John didn’t have the strength to argue, and he let himself drift off. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew that voice from somewhere. But it wasn’t important. Now was the time for sleep.


	2. Folie à Plusieurs (the Madness of Many)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds himself with some very interesting company in the desert, and learns of a possible source of information for the mark upon his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really crappy at song writing but it's a national anthem, so who cares?

A fire burned somewhere beside him, just far enough away for him to be warm but not uncomfortable. Heavy gauze weighed against his shoulder, but any pain was dulled by a painkiller. John kept his eyes closed, breathing in the smell of spice and cooking. There was movement to his left, accompanied by soft singing. He listened as best he could, though his brain felt like it was swimming in soup. “ _In the Kingdom of Stone there lived a woman, braver than brave, stronger than strong, with a heart of selfless virtue. The world was dark but she was the light, to guide us straight and true_ ,” the man crooned. John struggled to focus, watching the figure stoke the fire. “ _You were bright and bold, fierce as a wild cat. The world about you was full of pain, and of course you didn’t like that. Into your own hands you took the fate of our lost nation. Cahaya Misra, our protestor and patron._ ’

“C- You’re-” John slurred, trying to pull himself up.

The man stood, moving to John’s side. He pressed a hand to John’s forehead, frowning. “Hmm, your fever’s gone down at least. But we’ve already discussed moving and we agreed it was a bad idea. Well, you fainted so I took that as agreement. Any pain?”

“Where… am I?”

“On the outskirts of the Baskervilles. You fell down the mountain, do you remember?” the man asked.

“Y- Yeah. I think so,” John nodded, gritting his teeth when the headache throbbing behind his right eye formally introduced itself.

“Good. Look, my name’s Philip Anderson. Can you tell me yours?”

“John. John Watson- Ah!” John kneaded the heel of his palm into his forehead. Now that he was awake, properly awake, he could feel the ache of his body in full force.

“Here.” A bottle was pressed to his lips, and he sipped. The concoction was foul, tasting like rotten berries and day-old milk. A hand was pressed to his mouth to keep him from spitting it out. “I know it isn’t exactly sweet-berry juice but trust me, it’ll help.”

John forced himself to swallow the mixture, feeling it burn its way down his throat. “Urg, where did you get that?”

“I made it,” Anderson said. “Hungry?”

“Uh, yeah. Um, thank you.”

“For what?” Anderson ladled a brown stew into a bowl and passed it over. He returned to poking the fire, looking thoughtful. “It isn’t much. I haven’t really been through a town in a while so there isn’t much meat in it,” he added offhandedly.

“It’s fine. And I was thanking you for helping me. I mean, I did literally fall out of the sky. I could be anyone,” John said, swallowing the stew without really tasting it.

“I could be anyone, yet you haven’t hightailed it away,” the man remarked dryly. “How about we agree that we’re both very unusual and leave it at that?”

John nodded, and the conversation dried up. He used that moment to study the man sitting by the fire. He had dark hair, but his beard was ginger with streaks of grey, and pale, tired eyes. His clothes were unremarkable, in shades of dull grey and blue. Pinned to his scarf was the national crest of the Freed Republic of Cahaya Misra. He was a foreigner then, much like John himself. A bag lay open nearby, filled with scrolls and books and star charts. If John were to guess, considering where the man hailed from and the things he deemed necessary to drag around the desert, he would say that Anderson was some kind of academic. Hard to be sure though, seeing as Bohemia was mostly home to artists and Doyle home to neither. Finishing the last of his stew, John set aside the bowl and set to work mapping out his injuries. It could have been worse, he thought grimly. He was lucky to only have bruises and scrapes. And whatever it was Anderson had given him was numbing the worst of the pain. Spotting his satchel, he checked its contents and was relieved to find that his things were mostly unbroken. “You seem to have a lot of luck on your side,” Anderson said suddenly.

John smiled sheepishly, cinching the bag closed. “Uh, yeah. I suppose Quentin must be with me,” he said.

Anderson nodded, looking intrigued. “You’re Bohemian? Long way from home.”

“I could say the same to you,” John chuckled.

“Yes, I suppose you could. I haven’t been home in a long while though. I moved here to further my understanding of chemistry; Doyle is rife with the kind of mineral compounds you just can’t find anywhere else,” Anderson told him. “The people in my village thought I was mad. But I’m not, I promise.”

“They think that about everyone,” the blond said wisely.

“What about you?”

“Pardon?”

“What brought you to Doyle?”

“My parents. They thought a change of scene would help their health. It didn’t occur to them that they were moving to a desert, and by then it was too late to turn back. I’ve been here since I was fifteen.”

“Do you miss Bohemia?”

“I miss the ocean breeze from time to time, yeah. But I like it here, I haven’t the heart to leave,” John said quietly. He looked up, noting the stars twinkling above him. The moon was only a sliver, just barely there. A lone cloud hung in the air, desolate and desperate. The mountains loomed before him and he idly wondered if Gladstone was okay. A pang of sadness punched him in the gut as he thought of the hound. He had sounded so heartbroken when John had last heard him. Hopefully the mutt would make his way down from the mountain before John left. And just where was he going? There was no chance of going back to Harrod’s Dune, not when they wanted to string him up for no justifiable reason. And he was being honest when he said he didn’t want to go back to Bohemia. He did love the land, but it was so dull and familiar.

“My family’s in Cahaya. My wife told me not to come home ‘til I made something of myself, or else not come home at all. But I don’t know where else I should go,” Anderson mused, mostly to himself. “I was thinking of going to London; maybe see if I could find myself some work.”

“Sounds like a good idea. Maybe I should do that too,” John said thoughtfully.

Anderson looked up, clearly surprised at the suggestion. He thought it over, nodding. “Yes, that is a good idea. It would definitely beat wandering the desert by myself. Yes, all right. We’ll go to London. Together.”

John held out his hand, and Anderson grasped it firmly. “To London, together. It’ll be fun, and I could always use a travelling companion.” Anderson nodded enthusiastically. It seemed he had been contemplating spending the rest of his time alone. He must have been going mad without anyone to talk to. Privately, John was glad for the company. It made things a little less lonely.

 

* * *

 

 

If Anderson noticed John’s jumpy, nervous behaviour as they walked, he said nothing about it. He seemed more interested in his map than anything else. John, on the other hand, was on edge. He reacted to every little noise and movement. Tension was wrapped around him like a noose. It had been four days days since they started down the Winding Road and he’d been painfully aware of how exposed it made him. The villagers had seemed serious about putting him to death, and he wondered if that extended to searching for him beyond the city limits. He wouldn’t put it past Jarrod Rowan. “H- How far is Fairwind again?” he asked.

Anderson stopped, pulling out his compass that had several other dials he hadn’t bothered explaining to John. He glanced at it, and then up, and then in several other directions. “At the pace we’re going, I’d say… hmm, there’s only another… five miles? Maybe six.”

“Okay.”

“Are you all right? This isn’t too much for you?” Anderson queried, folding up his map.

John grimaced. “I’m fine.”

“What about your leg?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” John replied crisply, ignoring the way his leg throbbed. Of course, he wasn’t exactly lying. Physically, the limb was perfectly unharmed, apart from a small scratch. But every time he took a step sharp, white-hot agony shot through his body. Despite Anderson’s (quiet) concerns, he had managed to limp along for four days. He knew it was slowing them down, and that Anderson had been trying to schedule as many rests as he could possibly fit into a day. “Look… maybe you should-”

“No. I’m not going to leave you by the side of the road. Wait here a moment, let me see if I can find something,” Anderson said, disappearing down the small slope to the left of the path. John shifted from foot to foot, looking back down the road nervously. Anderson returned holding a large stick, holding it out to John. “Here, see if you can rest your weight on that.”

“Where on earth did you find that?” John asked, clutching the knobbly end of the stick awkwardly. It was a good height at least, and it was thick enough that it could take his weight without snapping.

“There’s a bunch of trees that way. I think someone tried to start an orchard, but most of the trees are dead,” Anderson explained. “Is it any good?”

“Yeah, yeah, this should get there in one piece. Thanks,” John grinned.

Anderson shrugged. “It was no problem.” He moved on, looking back only to make sure John wasn’t left behind.

 

* * *

 

 

Fairwind was a bustling settlement populated mostly by travellers. It was founded by Miss Claudia nearly three hundred years ago, back when the Winding Road was still being paved. The inn, the Desert Jewel, had an unnatural coolness to it that not even the hot summer sun could change. Its current owner, Frank Hardy, said it was in the architecture. Of course, his mother had said it was the spirit of Miss Claudia haunting the place. And _her_ mother had said it was some kind of magic. No one had ever really figured it out. But as far as the few locals were concerned, the inn equalled money and anything else was unimportant. John fidgeted as they headed to one of the smaller inns, the Dancing Bear, his thoughts far away. Inside it isn’t nearly as cool as the Desert Jewel would have been, but it’s out of the blistering sun and they have vacancies. John manages to scrape together enough gold for his own room and Anderson pays for their supper. They’re both hungrier than they had realised, and the meal is mostly silent. Between bites of papaya and squares of soft cheese, John contemplates the man sitting across from him. He’s unusual, that much is a given. Just the other day he had been explaining to John that the world was most likely spherical and revolved around the sun, with the moon revolving around the world. John had said nothing more than a simple ‘really?’ that had sent Anderson into another lengthy talk about celestial bodies. He was strange man, but he wasn’t unpleasant company.

“Riddick! You’re back from London!” a woman at the table next to theirs exclaimed, trapping the man in a tight hug.

“Yes, yes, I’m back,” Riddick said tiredly. He led her back to the table and slumped into his seat.

“I take it the road was rough?”

“Oh yeah. Something big is up in Bandit’s Run. There’s a flurry like you wouldn’t believe. Makes the road’s absolute hell, though,” Riddick sighed. “So anything happen while I was gone, Esti?”

Esti shook her head and wagged her finger at Riddick. “Oh, no, no! You were gone for _ages_. You have to tell me what the Seekers said.”

“It’s private, Esti.”

“It wasn’t when you thought it was a bug bite. You showed it to everyone!”

“Well, yeah, but now I know it’s a Spirit Mark I want to keep it private,” Riddick hissed.

“Um, I’m really sorry, but _what_ is a Spirit Mark,” John blurted out. He had least had the decency to look guilty about eavesdropping; Anderson was watching the conversation with a smirk.

Esti didn’t mind at all, grabbing Riddick’s arm and pulling down his sleeve. Despite his protests, she showed them the mark. It was a pale white against the man’s tanned skin, shaped like a crescent moon with three dots on its side. “See. It just showed up on him a while ago. He went to London to ask the Seekers if it meant anything,” Esti explained. Riddick pulled his arm back while she was distracted. “A Spirit Mark is a message from beyond, usually sent by a loved one who thinks the Marked needs help with their life. Sometimes, though, they’re sent by the Old Spirits.”

“And the Seekers are?”

“The Seekers of Truth. They’re followers of Ygraine, the Maiden Who Never Lied,” Anderson told him. “She’s one of the Old Spirits. The Seekers are dedicated to following her example.”

“Yeah. They’re basically the smartest people in the country, and they have all sorts of books about Spirit Marks and stuff,” Ester added.

“Oh, okay. Thanks,” John smiled and turned back to his food. His thoughts meandered down to the mark on his chest. The villagers had reacted harshly to the mark, calling it the Mark of Higowrath. They had said it meant he was part of the demon’s brood. A deceiver. But maybe these Seekers could help. She had said they had all sorts of books on these so-called Spirit Marks. Maybe they could tell him if there was some way to get rid of it.

“Do you have a Spirit Mark, then?” Anderson asked casually, his voice low.

“ _What_?”

“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine, but there’s no need to look as though I’m about to march you to the gallows,” Anderson said, picking apart his bread. “I mean, we’ve only just met and all, so I’m not exactly privy to your personal life, but…”

“It’s nothing. It might be something, but for now it’s nothing.”

“Okay.” Anderson went back to his lunch, seeming satisfied with John’s answer.

When the meal was done, they went to their rooms and tried to catch up on their rest. John lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling until night came. He thought of the beaches, of the sea and the waves, of Harry cavorting with a tall girl with wild curls and a wilder laugh. He remembered the endless road from Adler to Evelynton, being processed and scrutinised, and then a much shorter road to Harrod’s Dune. He remembered watching his father ingest Wildling seeds and lying on the floor as the hit took over. He remembers his mother stumbling and her fingers wobbling as she swore under her liquor-soaked breath. He remembers swearing to look after them, to not be like them, to get away from them. He remembers his father wandering off into the dunes and not coming back. He remembers his mother’s sightless eyes as her body failed. The memories wouldn’t rest and neither, it seemed, would he. So he sat up and stared out the little window. People walked by in the dark, groping at each other, stumbling, laughing. When Anderson came crashing into his room in the wee hours of the morning, saying that they needed to leave, he welcomed it. They snuck out a window as a mob stormed towards their rooms, crying “Demon!” until the word had lost all meaning. John would never be able to outrun them, so they stole a horse and rode away into the dawn. And in that time, John decided that Anderson was either a very loyal friend, or a very insane maniac. He didn’t know which he preferred, really.

 

* * *

 

 

They followed the road south, heading away from Fairwind. John spent most of the time trying to put together an explanation that didn’t sound half-mad to tell Anderson. The man himself seemed unperturbed, focusing on his compass and handling the reins. Not once did he demand anything from John, or try to kick him off the horse. It was rather miraculous really. Three days of riding later and they had reached Bandit’s Run, and as Riddick had said, it was a flurried mass of movement. They dismounted and walked into town, letting the horse make its way to a trough. The town was bedecked in streamers and banners and a mass of wood had been piled in the centre. A stone slipped into John’s stomach when he caught sight of it. “What do you think that’s for?” he asked Anderson quietly.

Anderson’s mouth twitched. He watched as more wood was thrown on the pile, frowning. “Is everyone in this country so eager to kill one another?” he muttered darkly, walking towards a man selling fried foods. “What’s going on?”

“It’s a witch burning,” the man informed him cheerily. “Our Protector, Mr Magnusson, caught her trying to commune with demons.”

“Is that so? Any evidence?”

“The Protector caught her in the act! Who needs more evidence than that?” the man said. “She’s an Unau woman anyway.”

“And that makes _burning a human being alive_ okay?” Anderson spat.

“Look, are you gonna buy something or are you going to ask questions? Because I have customers to serve!”

Anderson let out a harsh bark of laughter that had John stepping away in alarm. “Oh yes, of course. By all means, just go about your business as if someone isn’t about to be brutally murdered! It’s not like she might be innocent or anything!”

John grabbed Anderson’s shoulder and pulled him back, wincing as the struggle pulled uncomfortably on his still-not-healed shoulder. “Anderson!”

Anderson let out a violent huff of breath, following John away. “We can’t let them do this. It’s disgusting,” he hissed under his breath.

“I know.”

“How can they do this? This is barbaric!”

“I know.”

“We have to help her, John. _No one_ deserves this,” Anderson raged quietly. “We’ve got to- to-”

“ _I know_ , Anderson. I’m three steps ahead of you,” John said with a roll of his eyes. “C’mon.”

“What are we gonna do?” Anderson whispered, following John around the back of the tavern.

“Well… it won’t be legal. And there’s a slight chance we’ll be caught.” John took a deep breath, swinging round to look Anderson in the eye. “We’re gonna have to set a few things on fire.”

Anderson’s eyebrows flew up dangerously high, nearly disappearing into his hairline. “I thought we were trying to _rescue_ someone from being burned alive, not throwing more people onto the fire.”

“We’re not going to kill anyone. Just some minor property damage.”

“Yes, that’s much better,” Anderson said sarcastically.

“Look, do we want to help this person or not?” John demanded.

“Fine. What are we gonna do?”

“I’m going to go ask a few questions, figure out what we’ll be up against.”

“Won’t that make people suspicious?”

“I’m a short, injured nobody. They’ll dismiss me within a glance,” John said. “While I do that, you see if you can scope out something good and isolated for us to burn. And try not to arouse suspicion.”

Anderson grinned, pulling a brown bottle from his bag. He shook it, letting the liquid slosh against the sides. “You’re not the only one who knows how to put on an act, John.”

 

* * *

 

John made his way through the town, leaning heavily on his makeshift cane. He watched with open curiosity as the people proceeded with the preparations. After a few minutes of doing his best to look like a gaping, gawking tourist he approached a heavyset man wearing a scarlet bandana on his arm and a silver star around his neck. “Hello. What’s going on here?” he asked, jerking his head towards the pyre.

The man snorted, rolling his eyes. “We’re going to burn a witch. What’s it look like?”

“Oh. Really? I’ve never seen one of those before.”

“Stick around, you’ll see one soon enough.”

“Where do you keep the witches until you can burn them? _How_ do you keep them, if they have magical powers?”

“The fuck if I know. Ask our Protector. He’s the one who keeps them locked up. He’ll be over in the jailhouse over there,” the man nodded towards a grey building. John thanked him and headed in that direction.

Inside, the jail was dank and dim. A bespectacled man sat at the desk, reading a sheaf of papers with interest. He didn’t look up when John entered. John limped over towards the only occupied cell. The woman glared back, the chains around her wrists clinking with every movement. She bared her teeth at him as he got closer. Her hair hung dankly around her face and beneath her eyes were dark circles. Her skin was greasy and unwashed, bruises peppering her jaw and throat. “Come to gawk at the dead woman walking? You are a pig, just like all the others, glorying in the death of the innocent. Not even _Dimura_ would forgive you,” she spat.

John glanced at Mr Magnusson and edged closer. He had never payed much attention as he should have when Clara tried to teach him the tongue of her homeland, but he knew enough to get his message across. “ _We bring help. Be ready_.”

The woman still threw insults at him but her eyes sparked with hope. Under a breath, she replied, “ _I will wait. Thank you_.”

John left, pretending to laugh at the woman. Not once did Magnusson look away from his papers. He met Anderson outside, behind a toolshed. “What did you find?” he asked.

“There’s an old pub and a couple sheds on the opposite edge of town to where the burning is going to happen,” Anderson answered. “The pub will be closed for the afternoon’s _festivities_.”

“Good. I went and saw this so pro-claimed witch. They’ve got her chained up in one of the cells. No one seems to find it odd that she hasn’t just magicked her way out.”

Anderson rolled his eyes. “What sort of chains?”

“Iron by the looks of it. We could maybe saw it off, but that would take time. Our best bet would be to unscrew it from the wall, or just plain cut through the wall.”

“Our horse couldn’t carry all of us. And they’ll probably put two and two together when they find her missing. There are a lot of things that could go wrong here,” Anderson mused.

“Yeah, there are. So, are we gonna steal a second horse or will we send her on the horse and go off on foot?” John queried.

Anderson grinned. “I don’t think my conscience would allow me another theft. What about yours?”

John shrugged, smiling. “I’m alright with walking. Let’s get started then, shall we?”

 

* * *

 

 

Hours later they were once again trudging through the desert. Bandit’s Run was behind them, dousing the burning buildings with water, still unaware that their prisoner was gone. The woman, Sally, had insisted on setting the jail alight as well. It was a logical step, he supposed, to keep anyone for quickly catching onto the fact she was gone. They’d know when they found no body that she had escaped. Sally had looked dubious about taking the horse for herself, but had finally agreed when Anderson had told her they had more horses in waiting so that they could lay a false trail. It had been a lie, of course. They were laying a false trail and sweeping away any evidence of their footsteps or the horse’s prints. They just didn’t have any horses of their own. Anderson hadn’t said anything else in the time they’d been walking. If John thought to take a guess, he’d think the scientist had a little crush. Although, since the man already had a wife and children, it was best to abandon that line of thinking.

John hoped Sally had gotten far, far away from Bandit’s Run. He had wondered what she was doing so far from Unau, but he supposed he’d never know. “We have horses waiting. We’ll be right behind you, huh?” Sally snorted.

John scowled at her. “What are you doing here?”

Sally raised an eyebrow at him and shook her hands, the chains still attached to her wrists clanking. She lowered her hands and smirked. “I thought it would be conspicuous to run around with my new accessories. I hope you’ve got something to get rid of these.”

“We’ve still got the saw,” John offered. Sally winced and shook her head.

“A hairpin, maybe? The lock on this is complicated but I can probably pick it with time. While I’m doing that, one of you could cook up some supper,” she said, jerking her head to where a skinned rabbit was lying on a cloth.

“Well, you were certainly busy then,” John remarked.

“I’ll cook. John, why don’t you check to see if she has any injuries?” Anderson burst out, heading towards the fire.

John shook his head, kneeling down beside Sally. He dug around in his bag for something she could use to pick the lock. He handed her the small tool and pulled out his medical bag. “Can I look at your hands for a moment?” he asked.

“You’re a healer?” She held out her hands for him.

“Um, not formally so. I only learned all of this through necessity and then curiosity. I promise I know what I’m doing.” John examined her palms and winced at the raw redness of them. _Probably burned herself setting the jailhouse on fire_ , he thought.

“It’s fine. I learned much of what I know through necessity as well. You’re not from here, are you? Either of you?” Sally queried, twisting to look at Anderson.

“I’m Bohemian, he’s Misran. Though I’ve been here for a while now. What about you?” John started assembling his burn salves and some bandages, and then some other creams in case her wrists were chafing from the chains.

“I was from Unau, of the village of Donavon. But I’ve nothing left there, so I’ve come north,” Sally explained, patiently letting him apply the salve without even a wince.

John nodded, darting a glance at Anderson. He was straight backed and rigid, staring into the cooking pot as though it contained the answers to the universe. “That didn’t work out as well as you hoped, I take it.”

“No, it didn’t.” Sally looked over at Anderson again and leaned closer. “Is he… _okay_?”

John could sense the subtext clinging to the word ‘okay’ and bit his lip. Frankly, he was convinced the man was mad. But he was good company, and he had taken care of John when they had been practically strangers. It probably wasn’t fair to say that he was mad or insane, he was just viewing the world from a different point of view. Still, drinking cactus juice didn’t give one the best mental state and wandering in the heat hadn’t done him any favours. “He’s, ah, he’s a… scientist,” he said finally.

Sally looked unimpressed with the statement, but let it go. She sat back as much as she could, stretching her legs. “You limp when you walk,” she remarked.

“I do,” John confirmed, even though it wasn’t a question.

“And you hold your left arm gingerly. You have been injured recently?”

“My village – I’ve lived in Harrod’s Dune since I was fifteen – was attacked by Hurg’s Scorpions. I was stabbed through the shoulder. My leg… My leg isn’t injured, but my brain is convinced that it is. If I’m walking it’ll hurt and ache and protest any weight I put on it. But if I’m standing still or, as I’ve found recently, if I’m running for my life, it’s as though I’ve just forgotten about it. It happened only a short time ago,” John told her. He finished wrapping her hands and let go.

Sally nodded, looking down at her bandaged hands. Despite them, she managed to delicately begin the process of breaking the lock. “I’m not a thief,” she said.

“I didn’t think you were one.”

“Why else would I have these skills? Not to mention I’m from Unau. Everyone thinks we’re criminals, all of us. But I come from the country, from a farming village. The thieves live in the big cities. They take from the rest of us and call it taxes. The number of wealthy farmers losing their land to the king is no coincidence. And those who keep their land lose their lives to the bandits. They don’t care if we’re innocent, if we only have what we coax from the earth. They will pillage our homes and our people, and so long as they line the king’s pockets he won’t stop them. I promise you, I’m not a thief. I wouldn’t disgrace my family’s memory like that,” Sally murmured.

“There’s nothing much I could do to disgrace my family’s memory,” John replied.

Sally looked up sharply. “They are… gone?”

“All except my sister. My parents died years ago.”

“Were they murdered?”

“No. They died from their own personal demons. Drugs and drink.”

Sally made a soft, sympathetic sound, going back to her work. “Mine were killed by bandits. They killed nearly everyone in the village. The few left alive were either drawn into service or… _used_.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. He felt it too.

“Don’t be. I escaped. When I came back with the people from neighbouring villages, the bandits had left. The village was left abandoned, the bodies unburied. After the graves had been dug, I decided to go north, looking for some of my relatives. Instead I found… Don’t laugh when I say this, okay? You see, in my country we worship the natural order. Our gods are as much a part of the earth as we are.”

“I understand. I promise I won’t laugh. Go one, tell me what you found.”

“I was walking when I met a woman. She was a Priestess of the Earthly Temple. There aren’t many left in Unau; our temples were one of the first things taken from us. The bandits… But this Priestess was waiting by the road. She said she’d been sent by Dimura – she’s the goddess of water – and that she was waiting for me. I didn’t trust her at first, but then she said my name – my _entire_ name – and I knew there was no way she could have known it unless she had met my parents. And my parents had never left the village. So, I felt inclined to believe her. She asked me to follow her and she led me to a small cave. It had been set up like a prayer room. Another Priestess was there, younger. In the back, unseen, was a small well of water. I was told that I needed to stare into it and call upon Dimura. The Priestesses stood behind me, chanting and praying. I must have stared into that well for hours. Finally, I saw a woman within the water. She pulled me in and it was the strangest thing I had ever felt. I could feel the water, cold as ice, but I could still breathe. And Dimura whispered to me. She told me she saw the future and that she had had a vision of me slaying a demon. The Demon Lord Weylin, the master of corruption. He has been an enemy of Dimura for eons. She sought me out because she wanted to help me make that vision a reality. I asked her ‘what would you have me do’? And she told me I needed to go north, to come here to Doyle. She said the path of destiny began here for me.”

“I’ve heard worse reasons for coming here,” John quipped. Sally laughed, nearly dropping her tool.

“Why did everyone think you were a witch? In Bandit’s Run?” Anderson asked.

“I was trying to call on Dimura through a water barrel. That slime ball who calls himself their Protector found me and decided to make me his scapegoat. I thought I was going to die, my destiny unfinished,” Sally replied.

“Well, you’re welcome to come with us to London. That’s where we’re headed,” John said.

“How did you come to travel together? Are you… companions?” Sally queried cautiously.

“I fell down a mountain. He was kind enough to bandage my wounds and invited me along with him. So far I’ve done nothing but get him run out of nearly every town we’ve been to,” John joked.

“I have a wife and children,” Anderson added. “Well, my wife told me not to come back unless I had a stable job. So I only really have children at the moment.”

Not for the first time, John wondered if Anderson was trying to stave off impure thoughts. But he didn’t say that. Instead, he turned to Sally. “What do you say?”

Sally thought about it, her forehead creasing. She tapped something on the back of her hand, spelling something out in her own language. “I will accompany you. Destiny or not, I would rather be far, far away from Bandit’s Run.”

“Hear, hear,” John said. Sally’s chains fell away and so did the tension in her shoulders. John handed her some cream for her wrists before heading to the fireside. The smell of stewed rabbit filled the air, making his stomach rumble. Sally joined him, sniffing at the cooking pot hopefully. Together, the three of them ate beneath the moonlight, thinking of the long journey ahead. They each had their own goals, but getting there would require cooperation and teamwork. None of them had ever really been part of a team before. John and Anderson had both been outcasts, called upon only when necessity called for it. Sally, back in her village, had been a part of a small, tight-knit community, but who knew how long she’d been alone since leaving Unau? They each had their skills, they could each be a valuable member of the team, it was using them in tandem with everyone else that would take some effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Freed Republic of Cahaya Misra – The Freed Republic of Cahaya Misra, formerly the Kingdom of Stone, was once a dictatorship (which in turn had overthrown a monarchy). Hugo Stone had amassed a following of loyal supporters, some who even viewed him as a god, using his natural charisma and talent at strategy. He and his supporters overthrew the monarchy and Hugo took the crown for his own, pronouncing himself king. For a short time he was a fair and just ruler. But after an illness nearly killed him, he grew violent and murderous. His reign lasted twenty years. Cahaya Misra was a young woman raised by the Sisters of Compassion (renamed Sisters of Stone under the regime), who had lost many of her friends and family to the paranoid purges of the ‘king’. One day she went to the palace of Hugo Stone and began to dance. It was an ancient dance, performed by warriors before battle, and it was a challenge to Hugo Stone. She refused to stop, even when the guards attempted to remove her by force. She danced for three weeks straight, without food or water or rest. Finally, Hugo Stone took up her challenge, and faced her in a duel. Despite the odds, and having never picked up a weapon before in her life, Cahaya Misra dealt Hugo Stone a mortal wound and he later died of it. As the public rejoiced, there were calls for Cahaya to be made the new Queen; she instead urged for a democracy, where the power belonged to the people and not to any one person. On the way to the celebration of her triumph, Cahaya was attacked by a group of Stone fanatics and was badly wounded. She died several days later. In her honour, the citizens named their new nation after her, and adopted democracy. They have made a number of leaps and bounds in science and medicine, as education is free for all citizens. The main religion is spiritual.
> 
> Unau – A small landlocked nation, Unau is mostly agricultural. However, in recent years it has become host to a number of bandits and criminal groups, who pay a small fee to the king to gain free pass. The king even, quietly, encourages them to attack neighbouring nations, which has lead to sour relations amongst the leaders of said countries. This is especially prominent in their relationship with KoD, which was already strained due to an old feud between the two kingdoms. The rural peasants are still deeply entrenched in the old religion of Naturalism with nature gods at the forefront. Those in the bigger cities are less devout, and more focused on a monotheistic religion. A unique naming convention for the people of Unau is to give their children a secret second name, known only to the parents and, later, the child.
> 
> Bohemia – Bohemia is mostly a fishing nation, having a long stretch of ocean at their western border. They are also well known for their singers, said to be descendents of a siren who fell for a mortal man and gave up her home in the sea to be with him. They are largely neutral to the political turmoil between various countries, though they have a friendly rivalry with the Kingdom of Ungol’lit for the title of the “Fish Kingdom” due to both being heavily reliant on their fishing industry. It also has a highly admired artist scene, with much devotion to poetry, acting, painting, and storytelling. Their religion is polytheistic, involving gods and patron spirits.

**Author's Note:**

> * I'm talking about the Australian kind of swag. It's like a sleeping bag except it has a mattress attached and when you roll it up you can use it like a backpack. They're actually really cool.
> 
> ** Gorgomath: Basically Satan, except without the fallen angel part. He’s the King of the Underworld, and sends out horrible goblins and Hel-Hounds into the world to drag innocent souls down for him to torture and feast upon. His Hag-Women are particularly nasty, stealing children and babies from their cradles.
> 
> If there's anything else you want me to explain, comment and I'll stick it in.


End file.
